Krenzik's War Part 8
by TheManipulator
Summary: The crew of the Lady of Libron II try to keep from tearing at one another's throats as they make the transition from knuckledraggers to boozerunners and hustlersthen the government gets overthrown.


Title: Krenzik's War-Part 8

Author: Manipulator

Word count: 3948

Rating: M

Spoilers: "Kobol's Last Gleaming, Pts. 1 and 2"

Disclaimer: BSG is property of NBC/Universal

Notes: This story follow "Krenzik's War" parts 1-7, so you should catch up on those before diving in here. This story will be followed by a larger single work, "Shadows & Reflections," which will cover what happened to the Lady of Libron II during the first seven episodes of season 2.

"The way we played it, was 'no blood, no foul,'" Nick said, a meaty hand outstretched for the ball, which I held.

He stood at the top of the key, across from me, on our makeshift pyramid court. My eyes narrowed, and I couldn't help but smile, slick with perspiration, after Marty and I lost, narrowly, to Mangan and Toby. It was the first bit of genuine fun we'd had, since Colonial Day--since our palpable taste of what we may never have again.

The day after we returned, shaking off the afterglow, and the hangovers, bulletproof glass and steel for our new 20x25-meter shooting range had arrived. Crates with larger drums, and more copper tubing, for the still came that afternoon. Bertrand's "aide" Zenar also came with a steel briefcase, opened it before the entire crew in the mess hall. Wedged in black, hard foam were 9mm semi-auto pistols, one for each of us. He told us assault rifles would arrive later. Back to business, whatever it took to survive. At our busiest, welding the frame, bolting the target range together, assembling the new still, we had the most time to let our minds wander, to contemplate, to over-think.

I thought about Diana, how I pushed her out of my mind in Kitty's arms. Phelan's girl dug her nails into my back, whispered in my ear to push harder, maybe even meaning it. We were in business now, movers and shakers. This was our life, running booze, getting stuff, getting ahead. Making Phelan happy.

Our taste of the worlds left behind only made us face that we were stuck on this tub together, indefinitely. Once our target range was up and running, Stengler gave us all a pistol, and ammo. We couldn't take them off-ship, as the legality of carrying firearms wasn't hashed out, yet, let alone how we acquired them. Zenar had recommended that someone always be there at the airlock, or our seldom-used dock to meet any incoming ship, shoulder holsters in place. Welcome to the Lady of Libron II. Watch your step, and keep your hands were we can see 'em!

This wasn't personal, our world now was strictly business. Caffrey was busy, or in a meeting with the flight crew, or otherwise preoccupied, when I wanted to talk to him, find out why he so easily accepted this deal, on our behalf without so much as a few minutes to think it over.

We pressed on, taking an hour or so to try out our shiny new weapons in the firing range. Caff gave us pointers, and taught those of us who didn't know, how to tear down and clean them. The next day, two mystery crates, the size of coffins, arrived from Phelan's ship, the Prometheus. We hard-sealed with Phelan's ship, and cigarettes, liquor, and enough food to keep this ship going for over a year, arrived. The chest freezer, in the kitchen was packed so full, Lina and Neil couldn't move. Dry rations were stacked nearly to the ceiling, in the pantry, with left over boxes staged in the cargo hold. Things were looking up for us. We could trade portions of our stashed tobacco and liquor, even some of the finer foods, like the ribeye steaks, for just about anything we needed. The Lady was now a cottage industry.

Only the day after we reaped the initial benefits of our deal with Phelan, our relationship with Jasper Bertrnad, did we find the time to relax, after running through our daily maintenance routine. We had to finally interact with one another again.

I slipped on a pair of blue cutoff workpants, my sneakers, and hit our pyramid court, within view of our new firing range. Everybody, except Caff, who finished updating our cargo manifest with Jeffers, was around the court.

"So come on, Krenzik, what's it gonna be? You game?"

Nick had never played me, since we set up the court, only joining in a few two-on-two games. Did he think I couldn't play street ball? He already thought I was a brown-noser since the deal went down with Bertrand. I remembered how he used to drone on about the three kids--a boy and two girls--he had with two women who lived in his hometown of Port Chitsa, Libron's capital-- population 6 million. Sure, Nick Sorg was a straight up thug, if you listened to him. He grew up in and out of juvenile hall, busted few heads--he'd done and seen it all. Dealing with him was a minor tribulation, before. We'd make a seven to ten-day run, or three weeks at the most, then head planetside for five days, afforded the respite from each other. Now, we were spacetruckin' for the long haul, with Earth a distant speck. Any chance I had to shut his cakehole I would take.

The ball rolled off my fingers into his hands.

"No blood, no foul, dog," I said, grinning. Everyone else surrounded the mat, hunkered down, or standing with arms folded. Nick was going to pull some shit. Let him, I thought.

He charged the hole, immediately, trying to use his bulk to muscle past me, and laid a wounded duck, in a futile attempt to get it over my head, when it was obvious he couldn't blow through me. It was a stupid idea, really. He was compact and stocky, like a pit bull, but I still had 40 kilos on him. Someone of his limited skills couldn't hope to take me down with brute force. The ball ricocheted off the backboard, and I snapped it up in my right hand, keeping my eye on him. He smirked, beckoning me to come on. I was glad to oblige, charging toward the lower left of the triangle, then stopping, so he couldn't try to nail me with traveling.

"Come on, Mr. All-Pref," he grunted. "Show me whatcha got?"

The gang started laughing and hollering at his little taunt.

"Come on, Nicky," Coursen shouted. "Quit messin' around."

At his best friend's prompt, my opponent swatted at my hands, and I blew past him to the hole. 1-0, me.

He still refused to seriously take me on, inside, even though we were playing street rules. He tried a couple elbows, but still just stopped short, missing horribly. It was 6-0, when, redfaced, he took the ball.

He was quiet, then, jaw clenched. Each failure had made him angrier, and me happier. I couldn't help but smile.

"Come on, Nick," I said, wiping off my sweaty forehead with the back of my hand. "I thought you were gonna show me how you badass Port Chitsa boys played the game."

Laughter erupted behind me, and I could see Briar and Bobby wander off, Ed and Marty shake their heads.

Sorg gnashed his teeth, charged to the lower right point, waited a breath, then made his move, giving my ribs a little "hello" with an elbow. I winced, as air forced its way from my lungs, and he scored. I didn't double over, and, judging by the looks on everyone's faces I didn't grimace too emphatically. Nick tossed me the ball, as I stood at the top of the key.

"Yeah, boy," he said. "We're playin' hard, now. Comin' on back."

Mangan cleared his throat, and I heard his lighter snap open. "He can just run your ass over, too. I'd zip yer lip if I were you."

Nick's upper lip curled, as he glared at me. "Shit…"

I saw what was coming. I was getting bored, letting him muscle his way for a few garbage points before I mopped him up, 15-3, maybe 15-6. He would grumble for a few days about how afraid I was to play tough ball. Sure, it was petty and childish, but I wanted to shut him up, to really tear him down. So that's what I did.

He tossed the ball to me. I was just some hick asskisser with a little bit of book-learning, eh?

I knew I barely touched the left point of the triangle, as I didn't slow down, moving right into the brick wall that was Nick's torso. I also knew that he was trying to hook my arm. No sweat, switch hands, let my back hit the wood, and ram the ball into the hole, right over him. He was splayed out on the mat, as I loomed over him. He wasn't bleeding, so it was now 7-1.

Behind us, Marty spoke up, as I knew I was doing a horrible job of concealing my satisfaction.

"Man, you guys keep bangin' like that, Jeffers'll have your asses."

Nick Sorg clambered to his feet, grabbed the ball, glaring at him.

"How 'bout you shut up 'fore I do some bangin' on your head?"

I had to laugh then. Mangan smiled, behind his plume of cigarette smoke, while Toby and Coursen just laughed at him. Oh yes, he was really steaming. His own buddy, Ed, thought he was acting like an ass. This would be the time I let him get a point here, a point there, but frak that. I was sick of his crap. He wouldn't score again.

Nick was breathing heavily as he tossed the ball to me for a check.

"You were right, man," I told him. "Street ball is really tough."

I rolled it back into his stubby fingers. He tried the same thing, again--right point of the triangle, then charge. I was there, shoulder-blocking him onto his back, the wind gushed out of him, as I snapped up the ball, returned to the top of the key, so I could then charge right over him again. He'd barely gotten up, when I plowed into him, making the score 8-1.

He rose slowly, this time, teetering, on the balls of his ankles, on the way up.

"You okay, Nick? You want a breather?"

He glared at me, as he sucked in air, through his mouth, and shook his head.

I turned to get the ball from the hole. Behind us, I heard Bobby yell.

"Don't Nick!"

Then I felt his fist crunch in between my shoulder blades. I whipped around, but he tackled me, and we both tumbled to the floor.

I was thinking he was leading up to something like this, but not this fast. That was okay, because I realized, then, that I wanted him to.

Everybody rumbled up to pull us apart, as he tried to rear back, pop me in the mouth. My fist slammed into his throat, and I managed to scramble out from under him as he tried to catch his breath. I felt myself smile, rising, beckoning him to come back for more, through the sea of arms and and bodies trying to hold us back. We lunged into each other, and he tried to pull my shirt over my head, as I clutched a handful of his hair. We kept trying to land punches anywhere we could, as we teetered and fell again, taking everybody with us. Marty got lodged in between, as I felt the seams on my t-shirt rip, and the pile crushed on top of us.

Then I heard heavy footsteps, and the weight of the pile gradually disappeared, the Papa Bear was on the scene, but neither one of us cared. He wanted a piece of me, and I was sick of Nick Sorg's shit. I'd pound it out of him before I had to put up with any more, stuck on this tub.

"That's enough!"

Caffrey's voice boomed, as he shoved Nick off me. I lunged, oblivious to my boss' order, ready to bust Sorg's head wide open. Caff grabbed the back of my neck in one of his huge hands and threw me down to the concrete. One look at the rage in his eyes, made all the fight leave, posthaste.

"Go on, Krenzik, try an' swing over me again," he snarled. Everyone else stood, eyes finding anything to see but his face, as if we were all in a schoolyard. Caff strode around and among them, jaw muscles twitching. He gave Mangan a hard glance. The FTL tech was his second, and I'm sure Caff expected more out of him to prevent this.

My heart still pounded in my chest, and I became aware of a little blood in my mouth, as our foreman turned back to us.

"I don't give a frak what was said, or whatever. This shit doesn't happen. I'm sick of looking at you every day," he rumbled. He turned to the rest. "I'm sick of lookin' at all of you!"

He continued pacing around us, seeming to get angrier with each step.

"Anybody here wants to kick somebody's ass? KICK MY ASS!"

I shook in spite of myself when he said it, so did Nick, and the rest. Caff turned to us, one more time.

"Sorg, you head up to my quarters right now. Krenzik, you get cleaned up, and I want you there in thirty minutes."

He turned to leave, then said. "And remember, Jeffers don't hear any of this. What's said Down Below, stays Down Below."

With that, Nick pulled himself up, followed Caffrey back up top. I went down the freight elevator, and cleaned up, as everyone else found a reason to stay busy and out of sight.

The foreman had a small living space, with his own bathroom, a full-size bed, plus a dresser and a small table with four chairs, which Caff and I sat at, as we talked.

I felt like I was in the principal's office, about to get a fat stack of detentions.

"I just don't get you, Jay," he said. "When I heard all that go down, you were the last person I thought I'd see. Nick? Yeah. Some of the other guys, but not you."

I just slouched in my chair, and shrugged.

"We're stuck on this boat for a long time. Tension builds, Caff."

My foreman leaned forward, eyes narrowing.

"We can't let it. Not anymore. You know what we have, here. What we need to do."

I tilted my head, quizzically, then it was my turn to lean across the table.

"What do we have here, Caff? I know we got a deal you just took. No talking it over, nothing. You didn't even wait to see if Stengler--"

"Hold on, Jay. Phelan wasn't asking. Think about it. He suddenly got control of the brothels on Cloud Nine, and you saw the shit he sent over here. There's a pile of dead bodies he climbed over. We would have been next."

I just shook my head. He was right, and I guess I knew the score, even though I didn't want to admit it.

"What about the Captain, though?"

Caff sighed. He looked a little older, now, lines etched in his dark skin now ran a little deeper, it seemed. This wasn't the same guy that stood tall before President Laura Roslin, giving Colonial One the little kick it needed to get the ball rolling. I wondered, then, if there was a single person in the fleet who didn't feel an undeserved weight crushing down upon them.

"This is between you and me. Knuckledragger's honor, okay?"

I nodded. Knuckledragger's Honor is similar to officer's discretion, but the booze is generally worse. In this case, we weren't even drinking.

"Stengler basically put me in charge of trade. Now, that means I have a free hand, after making sure the Lady's needs are met, and some things coming aboard may need his final approval. Look at the Lady as a colony. Our digs in the engine room is like a province within that colony. We run our own deal, for the benefit of the ship, with little interference."

"And. . . that includes guns, too?"

He nodded, sadly. I couldn't tell if it was because he had to break it down for me, or because he did it.

"Everything, Jay. The President means well, and she holds this mess together, but she can't do it all, and the government can't take care of us. And that means, sometimes, we gotta get our hands dirty."

"How dirty, boss?"

"I… I hope to stay as clean as possible. Which is why we can't have you guys acting like you're in cellblock A. We need to be a team--more than ever."

Caff's evasive shift back to the fight told me all I wanted to hear. What I needed was another matter. I'd learned, since Colonial Day, that I would find out what I needed, every time, just not when it would help.

I smoked a cigarette, by the airlock, waiting to go to a passenger liner out of Leonis. The fight was a distant memory, since yesterday. I could hear the muted clap of gunfire, as Mitchell came down from CiC to practice in the range with his new sidearm. Marty and Nick were doing the weekly checkup on the water system. Toby was straightening the frame on a maintenance cart for Colonial Movers. He would get back with some parts we were running low on. Things were back to normal. Our daily grind of running through space, to the mysterious and distant planet Earth continued, and we kept moving, and trading, and acquiring. Bobby and Mike Briar were on their fork trucks, then, in fact, making space for another crate that Phelan needed held. I looked at my watch. My raptor was late.

Jeffers drone crackled over the P.A.

"All personnel report to the mess. Outgoing flights are cancelled."

A few minutes later, everyone, including our nurse, Joe Pinklon, the cafeteria crew, and all three of the cargo hold guys sat, waiting. Finally, Jeffers came out. His lips were a tight line on his red face. He didn't wait for the bevy of questions and complaints about our day grinding to a halt. He didn't need to. His words insured our silence the moment he spoke.

"Raptors are cutting into Colonial One's hull. All communications with the President's office are jammed. From what we can get from the rest of the fleet it…"

In six years aboard the Lady of Libron II, I never saw Jeffers trail off like that. He licked his lips, continued.

"It looks like Commander Adama is terminating Laura Roslin's presidency. We just don't know anything else, at this time. So, we're sitting tight, until further notice. That's all."

That's all. The government was apparently being overthrown, go on about your business, and have a great afternoon. The chatter began, nervous speculation and fear echoed off the white linoleum. I looked over to Caff, saw him sitting, head bowed, running a hand over his hair. Out of all of us, he was the one who wanted to believe this would work the most. I thought of saying something to him, but what? Cheer up boss, this'll all turn out for the best!

No, that wasn't going to cut it. I wondered if Adama was willing to kill, if necessary, if Roslin didn't step down. There was enough I didn't know, like whether we would make it to next week, let alone why our military was peeling open Colonial One like a tin can. I didn't need more variables. I realized then, that Diana would probably be on board, and the color drained from my face. I remembered a little piece of my high school history.

When staging a military coup, one must be sure to eliminate the entire line of succession. How far would Adama go? I realized I wasn't sure. This last run had forced people to reinvent themselves. Whatever Phelan did before, he was a hustler, now. Diana was a paper pusher who was now a member of the Cabinet. Bertrand was a captain of industry now trying to remold the galaxy in his image. On the Lady, freighter jocks were boozerunners. What was William Adama, our savior, now becoming?

I hoped that no one would elevate to martyrdom this day. I thought of my long-neglected prayer beads, in their velvet pouch, at the bottom of my locker.

Twenty minutes later, I was on the observation deck, just able to make out Colonial One, with the raptors stuck to it, like giant ticks. I'd chainsmoked four cigarettes, working on a fith. I don't know why I bothered to keep watch. It wasn't like we could pick up anything in CiC or on our scanner. Galactica scrambled the channels, and Vipers warded off any vessel coming too close.

All I could do was wait. Even after the first bombs dropped, and we followed Galactica to safety, I never felt this helpless. Even during those first five days on the run, I was able to feel like I was doing something, doing my part to give the toasters the finger, as I helped keep the Lady running.

After that, when I met Adama, Diana, found respect for them, and the crushing burdens that they so willingly carried, they made me want something to believe in. I wanted an ideal, beyond staying alive, beyond making it to the next day. When Caffrey shook Laura Roslin's hand, as flashbulbs burst around them, I thought I had seen the best of what we could be, as humans, come to the forefront.

Now, though, as we stayed on a self-serving politician's retainer, and the very people who lived to protect us locked horns in the vacuum, I wondered what the point of all this even was. Not even three months out, and we were starting to tear at one another. If what happened yesterday between Nick and I was a microcosm of what the fleet was going through, I wasn't liking our chances.

:"Hey," Caff said, behind me. I could smell one of his cigars burn to life as he joined me. "I think she'll be okay."

"I'd like to think you're right," I muttered, staring at my boots. People who gave a damn were in short supply, anymore.

Caff smiled, nudged my arm. "I was talking about about the President."

I looked up to him, a little chagrined at my tunnel vision, and how easily my ache showed on my face. I forced a weak grin of my own, dragged on my cigarette. "Well, I hope she's okay, too."

"I think she will be, Jay. She may not be the President, anymore, after…whatever's happening plays out, but she's a strong woman. She puts her people before everything else. If it comes down to it, Roslin will stand down, and make sure her people are safe--including Diana."

"What about Adama, though," I asked, remembering that day he found my mother's picture, by The Wall, how he radiated singular purpose and undaunted vision.

Caff just puffed on his stogie, letting the smoke twist up, as if his thoughts were forming in the gray plume.

"I don't know. But he's a soldier, not a mass murderer. If they surrender, he'll just take 'em in, I think. Rules of engagement, and all that."

"Rules of engagement…"

I crushed out my smoke, lit another, and waited for any reason to share in Caffrey's hope that things would be okay.


End file.
